


Hollow Bones for Wingless Boys

by TheFlirtMeister



Category: IT (1990), IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, F/M, Gen, M/M, Medical Procedures, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-14 17:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13595172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFlirtMeister/pseuds/TheFlirtMeister
Summary: “You’re a cutwing.” Richie says, mouth slack. “Fucking hell.”Eddie shifts, uncomfortable. “What about it?” He asks, remembering the day that his mother plied him with alcohol, and cut off his wings.Wingfic.





	1. Cormorant

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based off of Laurel Winter's Growing Wings, and also every wingfic that kaikamahine has ever written because I love her stuff so much. (Seriously, go read her work, I love her).
> 
> Also, which one of you let me write another multi chaptered fic. Should have stopped me while you still had the chance.

Eddie’s wings are cut when he’s thirteen years old. Puberty creeps up on him before he even knows it, growing taller seemingly overnight, with his voice cracking whenever he risks talking in class. There are sniggers, from the other boys, until the same thing happens to them, and the classroom is a silent pit of boys who dare not open their mouths, for fear of what comes out. The girls are much the same, with spots on their faces to rival the boys, and the shyness in which they shift in their seats at the mention of unmentionables.

When Eddie is ten, his neighbour, a girl named Betty Ripson, goes missing. People go missing a lot in Derry, but Eddie hasn’t paid any mind to it before. It’s just a fact of life, that cows moo, sheep baa, and people in Derry vanish suddenly without a trace. When Betty doesn’t turn up at Eddie’s front door to walk him to school one morning, and doesn’t show up the next morning, or the morning after that, nobody pays any much attention. She’s just vanished, like everyone else.

Eddie misses her, however. Betty is three years older than him, and she’s everything that Eddie wants to be. She’s cool, with long brown scraggly hair, and eyes that look rather like a cat’s. They walk to school every day together, talking about anything and everything, and Eddie thinks that she might just be the best friend he’s ever had.

He doesn’t tell this to anyone however. People tend not to like it when you bring up the missing people in Derry, they get antsy, uncomfortable. They fall silent when asked, or come up with some excuse to change the subject. Eddie realises that nobody will ever talk about Betty Ripson to him again, and for the first time in his life, feels completely alone in the world.

Except there’s something else. Eddie is in the bathtub when his mother forces herself into the room, her presence making the room seem heavy and dark. Eddie shivers in the water, from where he was reading a comic, and peeks up over the line of the bathtub to look at her.

“I’m washing behind my ears!” He says, before she can say anything. “And I’m scrubbing my back!”

“Huh.” His mother says, and fills up a beaker with warm water and sluices him down with it. Her fingers run over his back, feeling around the sharp jutting bone of his shoulder blades. Eddie shivers, and she prods some more.

“If Ripson’s mother had done this more often, maybe she wouldn’t be in this predicament of hers.” His mother says suddenly.

“What?” Eddie says, turning his head a little to look at her. She jerks his head back to where it was, her nails digging into his skin as she manoeuvres him back into place.

“Betty Ripson.” Eddie’s mother repeats, “I doubt she’ll come back. Girl’s as light as a feather, if you don’t mind the pun. She won’t survive the operation.”

Eddie blinks. “What are you talking about?”

There’s silence, before Eddie’s mother pours another beaker of water over Eddie’s head. Eddie jerks, gasping out as the water rushes in his eyes and nose and open mouth. His mother gives a growl of frustration, massaging his curls to get all the soap out, and then moves to the sink to wash her hands.

“Just talking to myself.” She says, and Eddie can feel her watching him, staring at his bare back. “Don’t you worry Eddie-bear.”

The nickname is enough to tell Eddie that the conversation is over. He turns back to his comic and continues reading, but his mother doesn’t leave, still watching him. Eddie turns the page, eyes scanning quickly as he reads about Superman rescuing Lois Lane. He wonders what it would be like to fly.

It’s almost a month later when Eddie leaves the house for school, and finds Betty Ripson leaning against his front gate. His mouth still tastes acidic from where he swallowed all his pills that morning, and for a second he thinks that she is a hallucination, that he’s finally experiencing those dreaded side effects the doctor warned him about.

“Hey Wheezy.” Betty calls to him, and she looks rough. She’s having to lean against the front gate to keep herself upright, her white face slick with sweat. She’s wearing a light blue shirt, and Eddie can see that she has bandages on underneath.

“Holy hell.” Eddie says, and doesn’t move. “Betty?”

Betty raises her hand to wave at him, and then quickly has to grab hold of the fence to stop herself falling over. “That’s me!” Her voice sounds sore. “Miss me?”

“Obviously!” Eddie leaves the safety of his front porch to race up to her, fanny pack hitting against his hip as he moves. “What happened to you? Where did you go?!”

“I had an operation.” Betty says. Her knuckles are pale from where she’s gripping the fence. “Sorry. I would have told you but…. It was really sudden.”

“You don’t have to apologise.” Eddie says, and then takes a step back. “Woah. Are you contagious?”

Betty laughs. “No threat short stuff.” She says. “I’m fine. It was just a routine thing.”

“You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit.” Betty says, and offers him a lopsided grin. “Does your mother know you swear?”

“Shut up.” Eddie says, cheeks heating up. “Don’t tell her!”

“I promise I won’t.” Betty says, “Your mom scares me too much.”

Eddie laughs. “She scares you?!”

“Yeah!” Betty says, “She’s terrifying.”

They grin at one another for a moment, until Betty looks away, seemingly unable to hold Eddie’s gaze anymore. She takes several deep breaths, before looking back up at him, and nodding at Eddie’s backpack.

“You ready for school?” She says, and Eddie blinks at her.

“You’re going to school? In your condition?” He asks, and Betty shrugs.

“Why not?” She says. “I might as well.”

Betty turns, and Eddie gasps out. She’s bled through her bandages, bled through her shirt, leaving a wine dark imprint of-

“Wings.” Eddie breathes, staring at the blossoming stain across Betty’s back. He reaches out, he can’t stop himself, and lightly touches them with her finger tips.

Betty winces, turning around to look at him. There are dark circles underneath her eyes, and her bottom lip is bitten straight through. They stare at one another, and Betty blinks, eyelashes fanning out across her face.

“What happened?” Eddie asks, his voice low.

“I-“ Betty runs a tongue over her bruised mouth, and then leans in. “Promise not to tell?”

“I promise.” Eddie says, and Betty opens her mouth to speak, just as two front doors swing open at once.

“Eddie!” Eddie’s mother cries. “Get inside! Get away from her!”

“Betty!” Betty’s mother comes running from her front porch, skirts billowing up in the sudden wind. “Betty, it’s too dangerous for you to be out here!”

Both mother’s are coming for the two of them at once, and Betty grabs hold of Eddie by his shoulders, pulls him closer to her. Her breath stinks of vomit, and the sweat is running down her forward in tear sized drops.

“They cut off my wings.” Betty says, her voice high pitched. “They took me away in the night- and they cut off my wings, and-“

Her mother grabs hold of Betty from the back, and Betty gives a howl of agony, squirming in her mother’s grasp. Her mother doesn’t let go however, dragging Betty backwards with her, just as Eddie’s mother catches up to him as well.

“Your daughter should be locked up!” Eddie’s mother snaps, “She shouldn’t be allowed out!”

“It’s not her fault!” Betty’s mother is almost in tears as she drags Betty up the front path towards her house. “It’s not her fault!”

“Betty!” Eddie cries out, as Betty gives another wail of pain, her mother scrabbling for purchase on her back.

“They broke them and they tore them and they cut them off!” Betty screams, and the sound of it echoes around the neighbourhood. “They hurt me!”

Eddie finds himself being dragged backwards by his mother towards his house. She has one heavy arm wrapped around his waist, and she’s pulling him so forcefully that Eddie’s feet are lifting off the ground.

The last time that Eddie sees Betty, she’s being carried back into the house, her shoes falling off her feet, her fists uselessly pummelling her mother to put her down. It’s an image that will haunt Eddie for months, the screaming, the crying, and the blood dripping from her back and staining everything red.

That is, of course, until the same thing happens to him.  


	2. Genyornis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for blood/gross descriptions of blood

The itch first makes itself known in the middle of a Math lesson, Eddie trying to scratch his back with a pencil whilst also trying to figure out Pythagoras theorem. The itch settles itself directly across his shoulder blades, and it makes Eddie squirm in his seat, furiously trying to get at it with the metal rubber of his pencil.

“Hey, asshole.” Tina Blake says, “Stop moving the table dimwit.”

“Sorry.” Eddie says, and when he pulls his pencil back from underneath his shirt, he sees the tip is stained with red. His eyes widen, staring at the red drooled around the tip, and then tosses the pencil onto his notepad where it stains the chequered paper crimson.

“Mr Kaspbrak?” The teacher asks him, pausing where he’s been scratching on the board with white chalk. When the children are being particularly awful, he drags his nails down the chalkboard and makes them all scream and duck underneath their desks.

“Sorry Sir.” Eddie says, and his back is itching so bad that he wants to peel off the layer of skin. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Hm.” The teacher huffs, and turns back to the board. Eddie imagines wings on his back, great big things, white to match the chalk dust. All smooth feathered, like the inside of a pillow, enough to make your nose tickle.

It’s almost enough to distract him from the pain. Almost.

When Eddie gets home, he slings his back into the living room, kisses his mother on the cheek like a good boy, and then races upstairs to the bathroom and locks the door. He strips off just his shirt, discarding it on the floor like an old rag, and then stands in front of the mirror over the sink.

His chest is thin, frail, with an old scar from where his mother insisted that he have his appendix taken out. The scar is white, thin, and he traces it with his finger, body jerking at the touch of cold hand against hot skin.

It’s harder to see his back. He turns around, and cranes his neck over his shoulder to try and see the damage. His back is red raw, blood dribbling from his shoulder blades and right down to the dimple where his skin disappears underneath his jeans.

The itch is still there. For a brief second, Eddie contemplates the razor that he knows lives underneath the sink, a relic from when his father was still alive. Eddie’s memories of his father come thin and few, but sometimes he will smell shaving foam, and remember sitting on the side of the bathtub, watching his father scrape lather from his face.

“You’ll do this someday.” His father had said, flicking the foam into the sink with an expertise that Eddie will never have, not even as an adult. “But don’t worry. I’ll teach you.”

Eddie’s father never got a chance to teach Eddie how to ride a bike, let alone shave his face. He died when Eddie was five, from reasons that Eddie doesn’t know, nor will ever work up the courage to ask his mother about. He supposes that his father’s death is why she’s so protective of him, but half the kids at school have dead father’s from the war, so Eddie doesn’t know why he was singled out.

He’s pondering this fact when someone pounds on the bathroom door with a heavy fist. He jumps, almost out of his skin which would be a relief, and scrambles for his shirt.

“Coming!”

“Eddie honey?” His mother calls through the lock. “You okay in there?”

“Fine!” Eddie yells, and realises with horror that his shirt is speckled with blood. “Uh, give me a minute!”

His mother tries the door handle, and it twists uselessly against her. “Baby, why is the door locked?”

“I’m….. On the toilet!” Eddie says, pulling his shirt on over his head.

“That doesn’t mean you have to lock the door.” She tells him, “It’s just me in the house. No strangers.”

Eddie buttons up his shirt with trembling fingers, and then crosses the room to unlock the door. His mother, who was leaning against it, almost falls on top of him, managing to catch herself at the last moment. They stare at one another, and then Eddie smiles nervously.

“Sorry Ma.”

“You’re growing up so fast.” His mother says, with a sniff. “Soon you won’t be my little boy any more.”

“I’ll always be your little boy.” Eddie says, and she bends down, and takes hold of his face in both hands, squeezing lightly.

“My baby.” She says, proud and pleased.

“All yours.” Eddie replies, and then wriggles out of her grip and escapes to his bedroom.

He throws himself down on the bed face first, figuring that it’s going to hurt like hell if he tries to land on his back. His skin feels like Patrick Hockstetter took a lighter to it, the feeling of burnt and rippled flesh weighing heavy against his back.

Eddie breathes in the scent of his pillow, which smells of laundry powder, and his special dandruff shampoo, and sweat. Whenever he used to go to Betty’s house, which is almost three years ago now, he used to lay on her bed and read her girl magazines and listen to her records. Her bedsheets smelt of perfume and talcum powder, and apple suckers.

Betty’s dead though. Or at least, gone. Her mom packed up the whole family and disappeared a couple of days after she dragged Betty down the garden path, screaming. Eddie hasn’t seen or heard anything from her since, so he assumes she’s dead. It’s better that way, it means he’s not hoping that she’ll turn up again.

Anyway, the house is sold, so that’s the end of that. Eddie will never, ever, go up to a girl’s room again, and let her paint his toenails and put make up on his face, giggling to her as they wipe it off before Eddie’s mom comes knocking for him.

Eddie reaches up his sweatshirt absentmindedly and scratches at his back. Then he pauses. There are two little lumps on his skin, spaced equally apart, next to his left and right shoulder blade. He scratches them, and the relief is so good that he’d moan with it. This must be the problem then.

He scratches for a good half an hour, wriggling about on the bed like a fish. He’s seen them on television, the fish that come up to spawn, the way they flop about on dry land like they’re dancing. Eddie feels a little like he’s dancing, as he moves his hands up and down to catch the itch.

When he pulls his hands out finally, his fingernails have blood and bits of his flaky skin underneath them. He grimaces, sitting upright on the bed, and opens up his bedside drawer, which has bottles of hand sanitizer in. He spends the next ten minutes methodically cleaning his hands, scraping out the dirt from underneath his nails, and rubbing sanitizer into his skin until his palms feel as cracked and raw as his back.

He wonders if all the other boy’s in school are going through this. It would explain why Bowers and his gang were so moody and angry all the time, if they were itching as bad as Eddie is. Maybe everyone goes through this, and Eddie will just have to learn how to grin and bear it? He knows girl’s go through something awful once a month, he’s heard Christine and Fran whispering about it together. Maybe this is the boy’s version?

Eddie is thinking about this when he hears the heavy footfall of his mother coming up the stairs. He panics, shoving the hand sanitizer into his bedside drawer again, and slamming it shut. He grabs a random textbook from his shelf and opens it at random, pretending to pour over it as his mother opens his bedroom door.

“Hey Eddie,” She says, stepping into the room. “You studying?”

“Yep.” Eddie says, looking up at her and smiling. “Reading all about….. Uh….. Stuff.”

“You’re such a smart boy.” She smiles back at him, reaching out her hand to pat him on the head. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks Ma.” Eddie says, leaning into her touch.

“I’ve made dinner.” She says, sitting down heavily next to him on the bed. It creaks ominously under her weight. “Your favourite. Casserole.”

Eddie hates casserole. “Thank you Mommy.” He says, and she leans in to kiss him on the forehead. “You’re the best.”

“I know.” She says, and strokes his cheek. “You ready to put the books away and come downstairs?”

“Sure am.” Eddie says, and then pauses. “Mom?”

“Yeah honey?” She replies.

Eddie wants to blurt it all out at once. That he’s itching, that he has lumps on his back, that he wants to know if this is normal or not. Instead, he shuts his mouth, and reaches out with his small arms to hug her.

“Nothing. Just wanted to let you know that I love you.”


	3. Auk

Eddie’s twelve, almost thirteen years old and getting beaten up outside the school. Henry Bowers has him by the throat, dangling him over the top of the school steps and taunting him at the same time. Eddie’s little legs are kicking out like a dog trying to swim in deep water, and he would scream, if Henry wasn’t blocking off his windpipe.

“Say my name.” Bowers says, and shakes him, like he’s a terrier trying to kill a rat.

Eddie gurgles something in response. Even he’s not sure what he says entirely, it comes out so strangled and distorted. Bowers shakes him again, harder, and Eddie wonders if he’s going to die here, head split open on the school steps.

“Say his fucking name pond-scum.” Hockstetter says, stepping closer. There is blood staining his mouth, and Eddie doesn’t know where it came from.

Eddie gurgles something indistinguishable again. They caught him at the end of the school day when Eddie’s guard was down, when all he wanted to do was run home and scratch his back against the splintered doorframe of his room.

“I said,” Hockstetter takes another step closer, and flicks his lighter on, holding it up to Eddie’s face. “Say his _name_.”

Eddie tips his head back and wails a sound that sounds like it could be the word Bowers, but only just. Henry looks over at the rest of his gang, who shrug back at him. Eddie wriggles about under Bower’s hand, and Henry sighs.

“Fine.” He says, and drops Eddie, hard.

Eddie crumples onto the ground, narrowly missing the steps and certain death. His shirt rides up from the back, exposing pale skin, and Henry plants his foot down there, firmly. Eddie gasps out in pain, chest pressed against the ground.

“Henry-“ He says, and Henry pushes down harder.

“What’s that on your back?” He asks, and Eddie wriggles.

“Nothing!”

“Don’t look like nothing.” Henry says, twisting his foot. Eddie screams out in agony, and Henry laughs. “Jesus, is that a skin condition? You’re all bloody and shit.”

“Get off me.” Eddie whimpers, “Henry, please-“

“So gross.” Henry peers down at Eddie’s back. “Hey, I think I can stick my finger in these two little bumps here!”

“Henry.” Victor interrupts. “Don’t.”

“You talking to me?” Henry turns to face Victor. “You think you can stop me?”

Victor is silent for a second before he shrugs. “I don’t know Henry. Just seems, creepy, you know? You don’t know what Wheezy’s got.”

Henry looks down at Eddie, and then removes his foot. “You’re right. I don’t want to get AIDS.”

The group burst out laughing, and Eddie shuts his eyes tight, tears threatening to spill. His back feels like Henry took a knife to it, and not just his foot. He can’t get the image of Henry working his fingers underneath Eddie’s skin out of his head, peeling the flesh from the bone.

Eddie waits before he thinks everyone has gone before raising his head. Victor is standing in front of him, and Eddie gives a gasp, dropping his head back against the floor. Victor hesitates, and then shuffles forward.

“Hey, fairy.” He says. Eddie doesn’t move. “I’m talking to you.”

Eddie looks up at him from underneath his eyelashes. “Please, just leave me alone.”

“In a bit.” Victor says, and then crouches down low to look at Eddie. “Listen. Your back-”

“It’s nothing.” Eddie interrupts.

“No, listen to me.” Victor places his finger directly between Eddie’s eyes and digs in hard with his nail. “Your back. You need to get that seen too, okay? Before the people find out. They’ll come for you.”

“It’s nothing.” Eddie says again, quieter. Victor shakes his head.

“It’s something.” He says, and then straightens upright. “Take it from me, okay? One sliced kid to another.”

Eddie looks up at Victor properly for the first time, his skinny frame, the almost white blonde hair, the way he holds his shoulder’s, like he’s expecting a weight to be there.

“Okay.” Eddie says finally, “Okay.”

“Good.” Victor says, and makes to go before stopping. “Hey, Eddie?”

“What?” Eddie asks.

“Try and stop being such a faggot.” Victor says, and leaves.

Eddie lays there for a little while longer, before shaking his head. “That’s not happening.” He mutters, and pushes himself off the ground.

It’s weeks later when Eddie drops from 6st 2lb to 5st 3lb. It seems to be almost overnight, when he climbs out of bed one morning and feels lighter than air. It’s almost like he’s floating, that he’s about to rise slowly upwards towards the ceiling and bump it with his head. It’s an almost magical feeling.

Eddie bounces his way down the stairs, backpack heavy round his shoulders to keep himself down. His mother is preparing breakfast in the kitchen, and Eddie practically skips into the room, pausing to give her a quick hug.

“Hey baby.” She says, sizzling bacon and eggs in a frying pan on the kitchen hob. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah!” Eddie says, and is about to sit down at the table when she catches hold of his arm. For a second, Eddie feels like a balloon, and then she yanks him down to earth.

“You’ve got so thin.” His mother says, peering at him. “What happened to you? Have you been eating? Have you been skipping lunch at school?”

“No!” Eddie says, “I promise, I’ve been eating. Lots. All the time, in fact.”

“But you’re so thin.” She says, and runs both hands down his sides. “I think we need to make a trip to the doctor.”

Eddie pulls out of her reach. “No.” He says, “No doctor’s.”

“But-“

“No.” Eddie says, a little more loudly. “Please. I don’t want to go to the doctor.”

His mother frowns, eyeing him up. “I want to weigh you.” She announces, “On the scales upstairs. I need to know how much weight you’ve lost.”

“Momma-“

“Don’t argue with me Eddie!” She says, voice high pitched. “You’re a very sick boy, we need to make note of all sudden weight changes! Something very bad could be happening to you!”

Eddie steps from one foot to the other. It is becoming apparent that he doesn’t really have a choice. Whatever his mother thinks is best, they have to do.

“Okay.” He says, and then turns towards the stovetop. “Hey, I think the food is burning?”

His mother just manages to rescue the bacon and eggs in time.

 Eddie very rarely goes into his mother’s bedroom, it’s practically a forbidden area in his house. When his father died, he remembered sneaking in there and climbing into his father’s wardrobe, inhaling in the scent of pinewood and cigar smoke. Now, the wardrobe has been taken over by his mother’s clothes, the old men’s shirts sent to Goodwill for some other poor soul.

Eddie’s mother drags the old scales out from underneath her bed, and makes Eddie take off his belt before he steps on them.

“I don’t want to get a wrong reading.” She says, studying him. “Maybe we should take off your shirt and pants too-“

“I’m fine!” Eddie blurts out. “I don’t need to strip.”

“I didn’t realise you were a medical expert.” She bristles, but lets him keep his clothes on.

His mother makes him step on the scales backwards so he can’t see his weight result, which Eddie thinks is stupid, but doesn’t voice. He stands there, shivering a little in the cold of the bedroom, as his mother adjusts him to be in the centre of the scales.

She sucks in her teeth at the reading. “Are you sure you’re okay Eddie?”

“I feel okay.” Eddie says slowly, “I don’t feel sick at all. Apart from my inhaler.”

“You’re 5 stone.” His mother says, her hand nestling into his hair. “That’s worrying. I think we need to talk to someone.”

An image of Betty screaming flashes behind Eddie’s eyes, and he jumps off the scales. “Maybe they’re broken?”

“They’re not broken sweetheart, you really are losing weight.” His mother says, “Just like y-“ She catches herself at the last minute, and straightens upright.

“Like who?”

“Nothing.” She says, but there’s something in her voice that makes Eddie uneasy. “How about we go downstairs and have breakfast?”

“But-“

“Fatten you up a little bit.” She’s smiling through yellowing teeth. “Come along now Eddie.”

“What about the doctor?” Eddie asks, and she slams her hand hard against the wall.

“Edward!” She barks. “What has Mommy told you about interrupting her?!”

Eddie blinks, the shock of her yelling almost bringing tears. “Sorry.” He mumbles, “I didn’t mean too.”

“Honestly.” Eddie’s mother shakes her head, “Children these days.”

She heaves herself past him and stalks off down the hallway. Eddie stays exactly where he is, wondering for one beautiful moment if she’ll leave him alone for the rest of the afternoon. Instead she pauses on the top step and turns to look at him.

“Are you coming Edward?” She asks, raising one eyebrow.

Eddie is helpless to do anything, but follow her.


	4. Calayan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> happy valentines day ladz
> 
> have some description about trauma

Locked doors are quickly becoming more common in the Kaspbrak household. Eddie is almost surprised that puberty hits him the same time as everyone else, as his mother is constantly parroting about how he’s a late bloomer.

It’s not just the usual puberty, cracked voice, hair growth in usual places, and the strange dreams about the boys in his class. The bumps on Eddie’s back have cracked open, to reveal little feathery nubs. Eddie has decided that he’s suffering from the world’s weirdest tumour, and has resigned himself to hiding away for the rest of his life.

He does research, of course. He’s not an idiot, he knows how to search for records to find out more about the weird disease he’s got. The school library is useless, and most of the books are defaced with anatomically correct phallic drawings, so he goes to the town library instead.

When he arrives, he spots Ben Hanscom in the corner by himself, flipping through a book of Derry history. Ben looks up, seemingly realising he’s being watched, and they have an awkward moment of eye contact as Ben catches him staring.

Ben gives him a little wave, a smile cracking across his doughy face. Eddie gives him a wave back, and then ducks between the nearest stacks so that Ben won’t get any ideas of friendship and invite him to sit with him. Eddie doesn’t need someone asking questions right now.

There are several books on tumours in the library, and Eddie piles them up, one on top of the other, and carries them to his table. Some of them he’s read before, his name still scrawled on the ticket on the front cover. He still needs to read through them though, to double check.

Almost an hour later, Eddie still hasn’t found anything of use. Tumours are abnormal growths of tissue, they’re made of fat and other disgusting things. They don’t start itching their way up through the skin, and they especially don’t grow feathers. Eddie bites his lip as he stares down at his useless books, and then climbs off his library seat.

There’s one book on wings in the entire library, and it’s been incorrectly labelled, or hidden, on a different shelf. Eddie eases it carefully from the other books, and then looks down at the front cover. It’s decorated with a portrait of Joan of Arc, with huge white wings spread out behind her. Eddie strokes the image with his forefinger, and then sits down on the carpeted floor to read it.

At first, it’s boring. It’s only talking about wings in relation to the Bible, the symbolism of being able to fly, the freedom of it all. Eddie is starting to think about giving up, that this was all a stupid idea in the first place, when he turns a page and finds that someone has neatly slotted in their own page in the middle of the book.

_STATISTICS OF MISSING CHILDREN IN DERRY PER YEAR._

_1 years old to 3 years old:            35_

_4 years old to 7 years old:             50_

_8 years old to 10 years old:           70_

_10 years old to 13 years old:        110_

_13 years old to 15 years old:        130_

 

Eddie is quiet for a moment. He knew that children went missing in Derry, but he has never stopped and thought about how many children must vanish. 110 children this year will hit puberty, and then disappear without a trace. He could be very easily end up as one of them.

_Why do we hide our children away? Why do we perform unsafe operations from crooked doctors? Wings are what made the angels heavenly, they are a sign of holiness. They are not something to be torn from our bodies, ripped from our backs, sheared from our skin like sheep. Why do we punish ourselves for gifts from god?_

He shudders, about to close the book, when he realises that someone has scrawled something at the very bottom of the page. It’s hard to make out, the handwriting is so scratchy and messy, and Eddie peers at it to read it.

_they killed my older sister and they’re gonna kill me too. RISE UP. RISE UP MOTHERFUCKERS. R.T_

Eddie could almost laugh, but the truth of it is painful. Girls and boys are _dying_. Betty Ripson screams in the back of his mind, and Eddie wonders if she even survived the healing process.

Eddie’s hand slides up his shirt automatically, and his fingers lightly touch the feathers on his back. They’re soft, like little chick feathers, only the colour of an old pillow. It’s started to become a comfort thing, to touch them. He feels like a little kid, sucking his thumb or his dummy as he touches them.

Eddie decides, right then and there, that he’s never going to tell anyone about his wings. He’ll bind them up in bandages like a straightjacket, so nobody will ever be able to tell that they’re growing. Maybe if he binds them, it’ll stunt their growth, and they’ll just be tiny baby wings forever.

He’s going to be safe, he tells himself, and slots the book back into place.

 

Eddie is in the bathtub when it happens. He’d filled up the tub all the way up to the rim, water quivering at the edge just threatening to spill. He can’t use any soap products because he’s allergic, so Eddie just sits there, in scalding hot water, listening to the pounding of his own heartbeat.

There have been people, in Asia, who have grown horns, bone protruding from their foreheads. There are bearded ladies in Connecticut, who marry wolf men from Mexico, and give birth to hairy little wolf pups. There are twins who are joined at the heart, and boys with flippers for hands, and elephant men. Maybe Eddie with his wings is just the next generation in the long line of freaks.

Eddie focuses his eyes at a tiny red dot on the bathroom wall. He can’t work out if it’s blood, or a flake of paint, so instead he just stares at it. The white bathroom walls with their tiling warp around the dot, until all that Eddie can see, burning into his eyelids, is red.

The bathroom door handle jiggles, breaking Eddie out of his gaze. He looks over at the door, wincing as the metal scrapes against itself, and wriggles his toes from where they have started going pruney in the water.

“Eddie?” His mother calls, and wriggles the door handle again. “Let me in please.”

“I’m in the bath!” Eddie calls back.

“You can step out for a minute!” His mother says. “Please, I want to come in.”

“Momma, I said-“ Eddie turns his head to yell back, just as the door bursts open.

His mother stands there, in both shock and surprise at the lock on the door breaking. She obviously didn’t expect it to snap underneath her weight, and there is almost fear in her eyes at the person she has become.

Then she catches sight of Eddie’s back.

The scream is loud enough to puncture Eddie’s eardrums, and he ducks underneath the water to save himself. The water rushes up over the side of the bathtub, and Eddie screws his eyes up tight, the water stinging at his eyeballs.

His mother wrenches him out of the bath by one arm, so powerfully in fact that Eddie feels his arm pop audibly. It dangles from her hand, and Eddie looks at it, almost curiously, and wonders why it’s completely detached from his socket.

“You’re-“ His mother’s face is bugged out, as red as the speck on the wall. “ _Why didn’t you tell me_?!”

Eddie squirms in her grip, “It’s nothing!”

“It is not _nothing_!” She screams, right up in his face. Spittle flecks his cheek. “They’re wings, you stupid boy!”

All at once, the screaming is drowned out. Eddie can see his mother’s mouth moving, but he can’t hear the sound. All he can hear inside his own head is the word _wings_ , repeated over and over like a prayer, someone finally saying the word out loud. Wings. Wings. Wings.

Eddie’s mother drops him back into the bath tub, and he hits his knee on the porcelin. It hurts, and he cries out, like a baby. He’s still trying to fight her, and protect himself however, wrapping his arms around his skinny frame and holding onto his body tight.

His mother collapses down onto the closed toilet seat lid, and stares at her son. She’s crying, and her hand is shaking as she brings it up to her face to wipe away the tears. Eddie’s never seen her like this before, not even when his father died.

“Who else knows?” She asks.

Eddie shakes his head. “Nobody.” He says, “I promise.”

“You promise?” She’s staring at him with a sick horror. “Because if I’m woken up at 3 in the morning by the police hammering on my door because you _told_ someone….”

 “Why would the police come?” Eddie asks, in innocent stupidity. He always assumed that it was parents who removed their children’s wings, and the authorities didn’t notice.

“Wingedfolk aren’t meant to exist!” His mother bursts out. “They’re _freaks_ , with their scabby wings, and bones, it’s not natural. It’s not right!”

Eddie clings to himself a little harder. “You can’t touch me.” He says. “You can’t touch them.”

“I won’t let them touch you.” His mother says, not listening to him. She wipes snot from her nose with the back of her hand. “You’re my boy. Nobody else’s. Mine.”

“What are you going to do then?” Eddie asks, and he wants to blurt out his plan, about binding them, about keeping them hidden.

Instead, she looks at him with steely determination.

“I’m going to cut off your wings myself.” She says, and Eddie wonders if he’s going to survive this.


	5. Takahe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings for graphic mutilation/pain/etc

Many years later, almost 27 years later in fact, Eddie will be sitting in a warm kitchen nursing a beer. Audra will be fluttering about, her pale fluorescent wings lifting her off the ground as she chops onions and potatoes for a stew. Eddie’s eyes will be slowly shutting, drunk and sleepy in the privacy of the Denbrough’s home, when Audra speaks.

“What was it like?” She asks, and her accent is soft enough that Eddie will barely lift his head.

“What was what like?” He asks, feeling the perspiration from his beer bottle drip onto his fingers.

“When they cut your wings?”

Eddie will open his eyes fully at that, blink at the woman who is standing, curiously, in front of him. She is 30 years old, and she still flits about the room like she’s just discovered how her wings work.

“Did it hurt?” Audra asks, sweet and simple.

“Yes.” Eddie replies, and the smell of bleach and hard liquor will crawl inside his nose, making the hairs burn. The way the knife glinted in the light streaming through the bathroom window will make his eyes sting. “Yes, it hurt.”

 -

Eddie’s memories of that night are blurry. Not from age, Eddie remembers the day he broke his arm as clearly as if it happened yesterday. No, the memories are blurry from the pain, and the alcohol, and the things he took to try and stop himself from hurting.

His mother springs it on him. It’s three days after the bath tub incident, and she’s been surprisingly calm and collected. Well, as calm and collected as she ever is. Eddie is forbidden from leaving the house, which Eddie is fine with, and he spends the days without his shirt on, letting his wings breathe.

They grow, in that time. Not fully grown, but simple fledgling wings. He feels like a little baby magpie, hopping from one sofa arm, to the other, to his mother’s armchair. She is nowhere to be found, and Eddie finds he doesn’t care, leaping from one item of furniture to the next. He imagines what it would be like with his adult wings. How free he would feel.

On the third day, Eddie comes down for breakfast to find a bowl of porridge, and a big glass of orange juice on the table. His mother is already sitting at the table, fingers laced, empty place mat in front of her. Eddie slips into his seat, and smiles at her.

“Good morning.” He says, and she looks at him with blank eyes.

“Good morning.” She says, and nods towards his glass. “Drink up.”

Eddie takes a sip of his orange juice and then almost spits it out, mouth puckering. “What’s in this?”

“I got something from the doctor.” She says, shifting in her seat. A bottle in her pocket clinks. “Keep drinking it. You need to drink it all up.”

Eddie frowns. “It tastes disgusting.”

“Just drink, Eddie.” She sounds weary.

Eddie manages to drink the entire thing, gulping it down, and then tries not to projectile vomit it back up again. It has the taste of permanent marker, embalming fluid even. It’s made his head feel woozy, and all he wants to do is lay down.

His mother leans across the table, and holds up her palm. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Eddie sways as he sits. “I don’t know…. Three?”

Her mouth twitches. “Can you count up to ten?”

Eddie opens his mouth, his mind muddled. “1, 2….. 4, no wait. 6. 7. 10.”

His mother stands up from the table, pushing her chair back into place. Eddie watches as the room spins around her, and then hiccups mournfully.

“What’s happening?” He asks.

“Come with me.” She says, and Eddie finds his legs won’t work anymore.

“Heavy.” He says, and she takes him by the hand.

“Come on,” She tells him, and her voice is almost kind. “I’ll lead you there.”

Eddie follows her, meek as a lamb, and wonders where they’re going.

-

She makes him stand in the bath tub, facing the wall. He feels like he’s waiting to get picked for the soccer team, standing by the goal posts until he’s the only one left. He feels so sick that he’s scared he’s going to throw up over the wall, and be forced to watch it trickle down the tiling.

“Drink this.” His mother says, reaching around to hand him a bottle. It’s brown glass, and Eddie sips at it. The liquid inside burns his throat, licking at him sweetly.

“What….?” He mumbles, and she pulls at his wings, straightening them out. Eddie can feel the bones in them creaking as she arranges them. “Wha?”

“Keep drinking.” She says, and Eddie drinks more. It’s still disgusting. “Until you finish the bottle.”

Eddie throws up before he can finish it. He manages to vomit up over his stomach and legs, and his mother growls in frustration. Eddie watches the vomit pool around his toes, and it makes him want to throw up again.

“Give me the bottle.” His mother says, and Eddie tries to hand it back to her, but he drops it. It smashes on the bottom of the bath, scratching the metal and also Eddie’s feet. Blood blossoms from the cuts.

“For god’s _sake_.” She snaps, and Eddie looks over his shoulder to see something silver in her hand. It looks dangerous, the blade sharp.

“What….. you doing?” Eddie asks, and almost falls over with the effort it takes to speak.

“Open your mouth.” She says, and Eddie does so. She slots something in his mouth, something hard. Eddie doesn’t know what it is. “Good. Now turn around.”

Eddie makes a noise around the object from his mouth. It’s stopping any noise from coming out, and he frowns, confused why she’s making him do this.

“Turn around!” She orders, and Eddie does so. The vomit is cooling around his feet. The bathroom is cold. He wants to go to sleep.

“Try not to scream.” His mother says, and the last thing Eddie hears is the swish of the knife coming down.

-

Pain. Agony. Betrayal. Pain. Pain. The way she’s sawing through blood and tendons, the scrape of metal against bone. Red. Red. So much red, pouring out. The coldness running through your body, not just the fingers and toes but all over, like the way the frozen pond cracks, snaking its way up to the centre until it’s too late, and you’re falling through the ice and your heart is broken, broken, spilled apart in your chest.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. He wants his mother for comfort but she’s the one hurting him. The thump of the left wing hitting the floor. The thump of the right wing. Digging into flesh to get the rest. Sticky fingers. Screaming. Block in mouth. Nobody will hear. Nobody will help.

Darkness

-

Eddie wakes up in the bath tub. The whole room smells of bleach, so powerfully in fact, that he rolls over onto his side and throws up. It comes out bloody, and Eddie wonders what the hell is going on, until the pain in his back kicks in.

“I just cleaned that.” His mother sighs, as Eddie howls on the floor of the bath.

It feels like someone is trying to claw their way out of his skin, everything raw and open and fresh. He wants to die. There’s always been some part of him that has wished for death, but now, as his skin splits open, oozing blood and puss, he wants this all to be over.

“You probably have bleach in your wounds.” His mother says, and then turns on the bath tub tap. Cold water sprays onto his face and Eddie opens his mouth, taking gulps of it. It cools him, if only a little bit.

“Where?” He manages to say, and then removes his face from the water. “My wings? Where?”

“I threw them away.” She says. “You don’t need them anymore Eddie.”

She kneels beside the bath tub and runs her hand through his sweaty hair. Eddie tries to move away from the touch, but it hurts, everything hurts.

“You’re whole now.” She says sweetly, and Eddie has never felt so broken in his life.


	6. Emu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SIX CHAPTERS IN AND THEY FINALLY FUCKING MEET

The road up to the Washington monument is completely blocked by traffic. Eddie has been sitting in the car for what feels like hours, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music on the radio.

His passenger, a woman who only gave her name as Marlene, is staring out the window. She’s wearing huge sunglasses, expensive, and she has her bag on her lap, rubbing the leather with her thumb. Eddie’s been trying to drive her to her destination for the past hour.

“I’m sorry.” Eddie says, over his shoulder. “I think there’s a protest going on.”

“That’s fine.” Marlene says, her accent foreign. “I’m in no hurry.”

Eddie looks out towards the rows and rows of cars that aren’t going anywhere and sighs. He shouldn’t have agreed to work today, he should have spent the day at home. It’s sweltering hot, he could have lounged in the living room sucking on ice cubes. Not that Eddie has ever lounged in his life.

“Hey, I know where I am.” Marlene says suddenly, interrupting Eddie’s fantasy. “Could you let me out here please?”

“Are you sure?” Eddie asks, and Marlene nods, already collecting up her purse.

“Ja. Thank you very much for driving me.”

She hands him a generous amount of money, much more than Eddie would have asked for, and then swings herself out of the cab. A car behind them beeps at her, and she holds up her hand in apology before crossing the road and onto the safety of the pavement.

Eddie sighs, and continues to sit in traffic.

An hour later, he hits the protestors. Not literally, he doesn’t aim his cab at the hoard of people who are marching with banners and plaques. He can’t read the writing on the boards they’re carrying, but he can figure why they’re protesting.

They’re all winged folk. It’s like angels have descended on Washington, wings of all different sizes and shapes and colours. Ravens and goldfinches and pigeons and rooks and magpies and canaries. All flapping in tandem, like one heartbeat. It’s enough to make you sing.

“ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, NO MORE SURGERY ANY MORE.” People are yelling as they walk past, “FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT, WINGS ARE GOOD AND WINGS ARE GREAT.”

Eddie watches them walk past the cars, the way they move with the shake of their hips and wings to accommodate themselves. They slap and bang against the car dashboards, causing drivers to shout and honk their horns, but the protestors don’t seem to give a shit.

Where was this support when Eddie was a teenage boy? His back itches, despite the fact that his wings have been cut for almost sixteen years. They haven’t itched in so long, it’s almost a surprise, and he worms his hand up his shirt to rub at the scars.

Eddie takes another long look at the marchers, at the women and men and children and teenagers, of all different races, and the way they walk in tandem. He swings the car out of traffic sharply, the brakes screeching, and then pulls it up on the side of the road.

Then he gets out, and joins the protestors.

At first he wanders in between the people, ignoring the strange looks they give him, this man with no wings. He shoulders the glares, weaving his way through the crowd, staring at all the feathers, wishing that he could reach out and touch, and feel the softness between his fingers.

Someone darts in front of him too quickly, wings fluffy and orange, and Eddie doesn’t step back in time. He collides with the back of the person, who makes a surprised shout, and spins around. Eddie opens his mouth at once to apologise, and then stops.

The man is just a little taller than him, with red hair that matches the feathers. He has a moustache that looks like a big orange caterpillar crawled across his face, and his eyes are bright and glittering. Eddie’s words die in his throat, and he goes a little pink.

“Watch out,” The man says, “You don’t want to get crushed!”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t.” Eddie says, “Sorry.”

The man studies him, eyes flicking from Eddie’s loafers up to the curly blonde hair on his head. “Are you taking part in the march?”

“Uh,” Eddie says. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

“You’re standing in the middle of it champ.” The man says, as protestors weave around them, still chanting. “Are you marching or not?”

Eddie looks around, and then squares his shoulders. “I’m marching.” He says, and the man grins at him.

“Wonderful.” He says, “Always good to have an ally on our side.”

“Oh, I’m not-“ Eddie starts, but the man has already started to walk off, and Eddie quickly follows after him.

The marches finishes outside the White House, to make a point, or just to cause a nuisance, Eddie doesn’t know. People tie themselves to their railings, careful of their wings, or lay down on the grass like they’re dead. Some people have covered themselves in fake blood and are still chanting about surgical procedures and death statistics.

The man who asked Eddie to march is sitting on the grass with another girl with bright red hair and scraggly wings. They’re talking and laughing about something, and Eddie wonders if they’re siblings or twins. They seem about the same age. Another man drops onto the floor beside them, with big brown wings like a sparrow, and kisses the woman on the cheek. Moustache man presents his cheek for a kiss too, and the three of them burst into peals of laughter.

Eddie hovers nearby anxiously until suddenly the moustached man looks up and smiles at him.

“Hey, spaghetti hair!” He says, and pats the ground next to him. “Come sit down. Your feet must be killing you.”

Some of the protestors had flown during the march, but not enough to get into trouble with the law, which restricts flying two feet from the ground. Eddie’s feet are aching with pain however, and he gladly collapses onto the ground next to everyone.

“I’m Richie,” The man says, and then points to the others. “This is Bev and Ben.”

“I like your jumper.” Bev says, and leans across to stroke the material with her fingers. “Very fancy.”

“It was a gift.” Eddie says truthfully. “Thank you.”

“So,” Ben says, studying him, “Are you here to support winged rights or just for a day trip?”

“Benjamin Henjamin!” Richie says, “Don’t speak to our new friend like that. Why would anyone want to march in the middle of Washington for the fun of it?”

“I don’t know?” Ben says with a shrug. “You can’t trust people who don’t have wings.”

“Actually-“ Eddie begins, but Richie claps a hand on Eddie’s shoulder.

“Well I have only known this man for less than five minutes and I trust him.” He says, and then pokes at Eddie’s hair. “Hey, is this a wig? No person’s hair can be this curly and cute.”

“Oh Richie, leave the poor man alone.” Bev says, shaking her head. “He doesn’t want you fussing over him.”

“I don’t mind.” Eddie says.

“See!” Richie says triumphantly. “He doesn’t mind.”

Eddie smiles shyly and lets Richie tug at his hair a little more. It’s playful, the same way that winged folk preen each others wing’s. Bev is doing it now to Ben, running her hands through his feathers and fixing them.

“Do you know where Stan went?” Richie asks, finishing with Eddie’s hair. “He promised to buy me food.”

“Buy your own food.” Bev says, “And no, I don’t.”

“Fuck.” Richie says, and sighs. “I’ll have to starve.”

“I could buy something?” Eddie offers, but Richie shakes his head, holding up a hand.

“Don’t worry, he just owes me a sandwich.” He says, and Ben snorts.

“What for?”

“Paying me for finally taking his virginity.” Richie says deadpan, and then laughs at Eddie’s face. “I helped persuade his wife not to buy an awful lamp.”

“God, Patty’s taste in furniture.” Ben shakes his head despairingly. “I’m an architect! I keep offering to help! She never takes it!”

“There there.” Bev pats Ben on the knee. “I’ll be okay.”

Richie stands up, brushing dirt off his trousers. “I’m going to go searching.” He says, and then looks down at Eddie. “Coming with?”

“Uh, sure.” Eddie says, and stands up too. “It was nice to meet you guys.”

“Nice to meet you too.” Bev says, smiling. Ben waves a hand in response.

Richie wanders through the crowd, Eddie easily falling into step beside him. Richie’s wings are fantastic, almost like a parrots, with an ombre of reds and oranges going through them. Eddie reaches out before he can stop himself, and runs his fingers through the feathers.

Richie spins around, frowning. Eddie takes a step back, pressing his hands behind his back.

“I’m so sorry.” Eddie says, “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s no big deal.” Richie says with a relaxed smile. “Have you never touched wings before?”

“Once.” Eddie says, thinking of his little canary wings. “Sorry. It’s a feeling you miss.”

“I couldn’t imagine not having wings.” Richie says, and he sounds so breathless as he says it. “My sister- She had the cutting procedure. It killed her.”

“God, I’m so sorry.” Eddie says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “It’s horrible- Barbaric.”

“Yeah.” Richie says, and there’s a hint of sadness before he straightens up and raises his eyebrow. “Well, hopefully the White House will get the message. We’re painting it in blood over the Presidents front lawn.”

Eddie laughs, and shrugs his shoulders. “You’d hope so, wouldn’t you?”

Richie grins at him, and then motions with his head. “Come on. Let’s get some food and find Stan on a full stomach.”

“Okay.” Eddie says, already knowing that he’d happily follow Richie wherever he went.

He wishes he could fly with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are v much loved and treasured.


End file.
